


Mr Right Now

by Sun_Sparks



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anonymous Sex, Exhibitionism, Grindr, M/M, Public Sex, Understall Hookup, this is super gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sun_Sparks/pseuds/Sun_Sparks
Summary: Craig comes back from college with a few notches on his bedpost and Grindr on his phone. A hookup that should be anonymous goes wrong very quickly.





	Mr Right Now

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you kindly to Metrophobic and GuineapigQueen for being my motivators! Big love.

He'd been back in South Park less than a day before he'd opened up Grindr. Craig has been spoilt by the college experience of casual sex; being back in a quiet mountain town now seems claustrophobic where it hadn't before. He feels like he left South Park as a boy and has come back as a man. It's only been three months - but what a wild three months they were. It's incredible how much of himself he never knew he was hiding from his friends, his parents, from himself, until he actually moved out.

Currently, he lays on the bed in his childhood room, dick in one hand and phone in the other. Posters and pictures of things Craig found interesting adorn the walls, like an exhibition of his life and they look at him with judgement. His bedroom was his main habitat not so long ago, but he feels like an outsider, a lodger, a guest; it doesn't feel like his any more. He's a visitor in this museum of himself. For this reason, he feels oddly guilty about jerking off in the privacy of his bedroom despite the fact he's in no way a stranger to it. Cocktails of hormones and puberty meant he got to know himself very well in this very room, except this time, he's got experience under his belt and a butt plug in his ass.

He flicks through the few Grindr profiles that are in the surrounding area. He recognises a few - Mr. Slave in fetish gear, Mr. Garrison, and someone who he vaguely acknowledges is a friend's dad but can't be too sure whose. For the most part, the profiles are unremarkable, bar one or two: a multitude of torsos (though he can't complain too much; that's his picture too), the occasional cartoon and a few where the pictures are too nice to be a legitimate account, especially in South Park. He lazily strokes his dick and skims through the profiles as he internally debates who in the surrounding area looks like a good lay.

As he picks up the pace, he receives a message from a user nearby. A _Joe, 20_ , _A Mile Away_. His profile picture is him sat on a bed with his back to the camera with very nice lighting. It shines through his blonde hair, giving him a golden halo; a gay saint of fucking. The guy has a great ass, Craig thinks, and recognises this as one of the profiles he thought was a bot.

It's a relatively uninventive message: 'hey’.

Craig does what he always does in these situations where he thinks bots are concerned: send an odd arrangement of emojis to see what he gets back. He tactically chooses the non-potable water icon, followed by the dancing girls, a camera, the saxophone, a compass and finally the eggplant for good measure. He's surprised to see the next message is a bunch of question marks, followed quickly with 'idk what that means’.

 

Oh shit sorryI

Ithought you were a bot

Lol no

You good?

Yeah you?

 

It's not the greatest conversation he's ever had, but he's not there to chit-chat. His dick lays fully erect, flush and neglected against his stomach as he brings his other hand to quickly type out a message. He rocks back on the butt plug when he sees their messages come through at the same time.

 

Yeah

sorry this is forward

are you looking for Mr right or Mr right now?

You dtf?

Fuck yeah

 

His hand goes back to his junk when the guy on the other end of the conversation snaps a picture of the very visible outline of his cock in his pants. He's holding it through the outsides of his clothes and explains how horny he's been at work and hasn't been able to focus for the whole day. Craig hopes his partner is blushing when he sends a very x-rated one of his own leaving little to the imagination.

It clearly worked, because Joe probes him with more than a few questions: is he clean, does he use condoms, is he on PrEP? He stipulates he has to be the top, too; _'nothing personal,’_ Grindr Guy texted. _‘I just don't trust hookups to be honest with me.’_ Craig thinks it's all a bit excessive but he's happy to comply for a good fuck. He douched earlier for a reason and by God was it not going to waste.

Joe says he's discreet, that nobody can know who he is or let the town know what he's up to. For this reason, he insists on an anonymous hookup. Craig is fine with this; he knows full well news travels fast in this tired, backwards town. The community thirsts for gossip and it's tea he's not willing to provide. After all, it's part of the reason he moved out, isn't it? They're still talking about somebody who got outed over half a decade ago, and he dreads the thought of the brain-dead zombie hordes being given a taste of fresh meat. It's common courtesy to keep things discreet in queer circles, but he doesn't trust people in this town. He's glad his partner suggested anonymity - a chest pic and an emoji for a name doesn't really suggest he's in a position to be 'out’ either.

Joe instructs him to be in the foremost right stall in the toilets of the bijou cinema in half an hour. He's never had sex in such a public place before and the thought drives him wild. He unwillingly leaves his dick alone to get himself ready and pulls his favourite jockstrap from the bottom of his suitcase, having packed it anticipating some great sex. His cock strains against the material and he knows his ass looks incredible.

* * *

 

He arrives at the cinema with around six minutes to spare after a brisk walk. The butt plug sits tightly between his cheeks and acts as a reminder of what's to come, moving subtly with every step he takes. Even the cold Colorado air can't cool him down from how hot he feels, but the high is brought to a temporary halt when he’s stopped by a bored looking teenager gatekeeping the doors.

“Ticket, please.”

Craig looks up to see the board that lists the films but only sees the titles from awkward angles, mangled and unreadable as he looks at them from below. He has to think quickly.

“My friend said we were going to see the next showing, of uh, whatever was playing.”

The kid looks unimpressed in the telltale way that teenagers are unable to hide their true feelings. He chews his gum and pops an obnoxiously loud bubble. “Aren't you a little old for _The Boss Baby 3, Sir_?”

Craig looks at the kid at the desk. His blood is in his dick and his thoughts are no good to him now. On any other day, he'd come up with something witty, but right now his main mission is to get into the cinema. He nods blankly, having no idea what he's agreeing with.

“You're five minutes late to the showing, you  still want a ticket?”

“It's still in the trailers right? It'll be fine.”

“No, it's about five minutes into the movie,” the ticket guy says, as his pops his gum for a second time.

“Just give me the damn ticket, dude,” Craig sighs, as he slides over ten bucks.

He reaches the stall a few minutes later than he planned to and checks his messages. He can feel his heart hammer relentlessly against his chest in anticipation, beating faster and faster as he double checks what knocks he was instructed to do. _Two, then three, then two_. Beads of sweat form on his brow as he unzips his pants. He coughs for good measure and from the silence, hears the small knocks of his partner in reply from the other side of the stall.

He drops his pants to the floor and kneels down by the partition of the stalls. The cold tiles contrast against his hot skin favourably and it's not long before his partner does the same.

Joe has an incredible dick, Craig thinks. Smooth with a good size, framed beautifully by dark gold curls. It's coloured in the way only it could be when it's been hard for hours and it radiates enthusiasm for Craig's ass. An angel will fuck him in this restroom.

Craig takes it in his hand and experimentally strokes his partner's shaft. He spits in hand for lube - he can't tell if that grunt from the other side of the stall is in favour or disproving of - and presents himself in a similar fashion. He can't see what's going on from the other side of the stall, but he closes his eyes in ecstasy as his partner frees his cock from his jockstrap and jerks him at a decent pace.

Craig removes his buttplug and whines at the loss of sensation while his partner continues to stroke his shaft, gliding his hand up and down and playing with the sensitive tip. Much more and he knows he'll climax too early, so he turns himself around in anticipation of getting pounded.

As Craig angles himself in a prime position, he takes a minute to feel and acknowledge his senses.

He sees the graffiti on the walls, the word _fag_ scrawled and condemning, but his current position feels defiant, kinky and shameless. He hears the sounds of small grunts and the tearing of a condom wrapper, the anticipation of what's to come becoming too much to handle. He smells the thick aroma of sex and something familiar; juniper wet with dew, a light rain in the middle of a dusty afternoon, the first splash of sun on an April. He's not sure where the metaphors come from, but it feels right, and definitely something he knows well. Most of all, he feels everything intensely, switched on and desperate. His heartbeat drums an emphatic beat and the incoming cock in his ass gives him the satisfying fullness he's been craving.

His partner starts more slowly than he'd like, giving Craig a moment to get used to the new sensation. He wipes his brow with one hand and jerks with the other while Joe finds his rhythm. He's glad they find their groove quickly because within the minute, they're both panting and grunting, desperate and needy. Hands meet hips for stability and they're both quickly becoming undone.

He's taken out of the moment temporarily when he closes his eyes to discover he knows those noises well; he's heard them countless times as he's grown up. Sometimes panicky, often erratic, but underneath the lust and excitement, those grunts almost certainly belong to... Tweek. Craig revisits the familiar scents from earlier and realises that it wasn't juniper he could smell at all - it was coffee.

Tweek brings his thrusting to an immediate halt when Craig calls his name.

“...Craig?” He whispers back, the panic setting in his voice.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

A pregnant pause:

“...Hi.”

“Fuck,” The thud of Tweek's head meeting the cubicle wall echoes and reverberates around an otherwise silent bathroom.

Tension hangs in the air, thick and heavy. Nobody moves, nobody utters a word. Neither want to be the first to say anything, but the sounds of mutual panting and the drip drip drip of a leaking tap quickly makes them feel more uncomfortable than they already are.

The cubicle seems like it's shrinking and Craig is suddenly aware of the enclosed space; the filth on the cold, hard tiles and the homophobic graffiti that screams at him incessantly from the wall, condemning. _Fag fag fag fag._ It's drowned out only by the uncomfortable feeling settling in his bare knees and the guilt that he finds the idea of Tweek in the next stall over impossibly hot.

“Dude! Are you still jerking off?!”

And Craig was. Amongst the chaos of the situation, he knows he came here for one reason only. He didn't wear his best jockstrap for nothing and the sex is incredible. He's finishing here, whether Tweek likes it or not. Tweek shuffles around in the stall, repositions himself for better access.   
  
“Well, you-ngh, you wanna be like that?” Tweek punctuates every syllable with a thrust. “Then we're, we’re gonna be like that, you hnnnn-- _slut_ , you, ah, like getting fucked by... strangers in public bathrooms? Then I'll—I’ll fuck you real good!” 

Tweek picks up the pace, going harder, faster than he had before. He grips Craig’s hips with force that will surely leave bruises in the morning, leaves half-moon indents where he digs his hands in a little too deeply. He removes a hand to smack Craig’s ass with force. Craig moans, groans at the flash of pain that that disappears all too quickly for his liking.

“I bet you—I bet you liked that, didn’t you? You slut,” Tweek spits, without any malice at all.

Craig had never considered Tweek would ever be a dominant type into dirty talk, but as Tweek tears up Craig’s ass, he’s never been more grateful to be wrong. His knee catches on a raised bit of tile, scratching him ever so slightly. It’s a pain he doesn’t care about, heightening every sensation coursing through his body.

“You’re such a _fucking_ slut, _Craig_ ,” he grunts, as Craig handles his own cock with more speed. Their skin is sticky, glistening with sweat. Each thrust makes a loud slap that neither seem to care about. Discreet be damned - they're having too much fun.

Craig rocks himself backwards against Tweek in the other side of the stall, the change in rhythm off-putting but not uncomfortable. His moans get caught in his throat, slipping from his open mouth unwillingly and his eyes flutter in bliss. He sees the writing again. This time, FAG looks like a badge of honour, a proud and unashamed signifier of exactly who he is. He almost wants there to be a scrawl that says slut, too; it's music to Craig's ears. He puts his empty hand over Tweek's and non-verbally insists his partner grips harder.

Tweek’s dirty talk fades into indistinct mutters and groans, making little to no sense as he pounds into Craig like his life depends on it. He pulls his hand back for another firm slap to Craig’s ass and elicits a quiet grunt in pleasure.  
  
Tweek isn’t sure whether it’s the rhythmic twitching of Craig’s ass or the moan loud enough to wake the dead that sets him off, but his own orgasm rips through him like a fire. He holds his partner close to him as they ride out their near simultaneous climaxes, breathing heavily. Craig takes a few seconds to catch his breath. He gets up, puts on his jeans and quietly exits the restroom, leaving Tweek in an exhausted lump on the floor of the neighbouring stall.

* * *

 Tweek glares at Craig from behind the counter as he walks into the coffee shop later that day. It's mostly empty; a few stray souls sit comfortably in large chairs nursing their cups and engrossed in the sensationalised titles that adorn their trashy magazines. From across the room, Craig spots a headline that says _'7 Celebs You Never Knew Were Gay’._ Craig's curious; the reader wears an expression that reads both scandalous and horrified. He hopes Ryan Reynolds is on the list, if only to be that one step closer to sleeping with a certified hottie.

“What are you doing here, dick-for-brains?”

“Uh, getting coffee?”

Craig stares blankly at Tweek, who stands incensed at the counter with a slowly cracking customer service face. Neither says anything; it’s a standoff and a battle of wits. Tweek makes a rude gesture and a facial expression to prompt him into saying something, anything.

“What do you want-“   
“Why are you being so hostile-”

They break at the same time, the tension becoming too much for either of them to handle.

“Well, cleaning your cum off the stalls and floor wasn’t what I had planned for my day, for a start,” Tweek says between gritted teeth.

“Oh.”

“Don’t _'oh'_ me. What if— why did you—nngh, whatever man. What do you want to drink?”

Tweek rakes his hands through his tousled hair, not fully back in place since their earlier tryst in the cinema stalls. In fairness, his hair never really lends itself to a tidy and professional style but here it is: on full display for the world to see and know exactly what he’d been up to.

“Latte, I guess,”

“For here, or to go?”

“Here?” He says, as a suggestion instead of a statement. It’s not a question that can have a right or wrong answer, but he feels like it is one. Tweek looks like he’s ready to boot him off whatever weird game show they’re playing, complete with the charm of the host and a consolation prize for when Craig inevitably loses.

“Take a seat, I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

The next five minutes are wholly unremarkable. From over the shoulder of the person reading the magazine, he can clearly see that Ryan Reynolds is not on the list. In fact, the entire list itself is disappointing; he sees Ellen DeGeneres, Elton John, and Neil Patrick Harris. Ultimately, there’s only one name he doesn’t recognise, but he doesn’t care either way. Having learned nothing, he glances over at Tweek. He's busy serving another customer who looks like she's fresh out of church. There isn't a hair out of place and her clothes are proper and modest, an almost direct opposite of the frazzled man that stands on the other side of the counter. He reckons she'd have a heart attack if she knew what they'd been up to. It isn't long before Tweek calls him over.

 As he saunters back to the counter, he sees his consolation prize sat in a takeaway cup and not a mug. When he picks it up, he discovers his name is replaced with **_ASSHOLE_ ** _,_ written in scrawled, angry, capital letters and underlined three times. Tweek pulls a smug face. Craig flips a finger. The would-be church-lady's mouth makes a small, defined o. She turns on her heel and makes her way out of the café with haste.

 Craig looks at the drink again and takes an experimental sip to discover it does actually contain a latte. It's a good one, too. He pauses a moment to look at the letters on the cup.

“That's a funny way to write _'Craig’_ ,”

Despite trying to look angry, Tweek stifles a laugh, finding comedy in the situation that just unfolded.

“Stop it, I'm trying to be mad at you.”

“Why? I don't get it,” He shrugs, “I thought we were cool.”

“Because I-- because you-- nngh, I don't know, Craig. There's something, and everything -- I'm just feeling some kind of way, I guess. Can we talk about this later on?”

Craig internally cringes: a talk with Tweek is never anything brief, especially when he's got something on his mind. In fact, he's almost certain this will go on for a while and his cluelessness to the entire situation won't help in the slightest. He does his best at putting on a smile and agrees, while Tweek noticeably looks less agitated for being given time to collect his thoughts.

He finishes his coffee in one of the bigger chairs, poring over the magazine from earlier that was abandoned on a neighbouring table. He says he doesn't like drama, but god only knows he turned straight to the celebrity gossip pages to see what Kim K was up to next.

* * *

 

Craig meets Tweek at his house after he finishes work later that evening. The door is unlocked, as he knew it would be - he's done this countless of times before. The smell of a dark roast has permeated and settled in to Tweek's clothes and leaves the scent of coffee wherever he goes. Craig follows it to a messy kitchen where he finds him making a drink.

“Shoes off.”

“You've never asked me to take my shoes off before,” Craig states.

“Yeah, well I'm asking you now. _Shoes. Off.”_

As he bends over to untie his shoes, he's sure he can see Tweek checking him out. Undeterred by the earlier hostility, he pushes his ass out, just in case. He can hear Tweek give an exasperated sigh when he offers a drink.

Craig makes himself at home on the sofa as he's done so many times before and immediately abandons the mug Tweek brings him when he sees it contains green tea.

“What's with the hippy shit?”

“Cartman repellant,” Tweek deadpans.

“Really?”

“No, not really, dumbass. It helps me relax.”

He brings the cup to his lips before inhaling the fragrant aroma and taking a tentative sip. He closes his eyes and sinks into the couch. Craig awkwardly fidgets next to him, drums his fingers on his thighs and waits for a cue that doesn't come.

“I don't know why you're being a dick.”

Tweek opens an eye to look straight at Craig whilst still making an effort to keep his composure. “That's not fair and you know it. There's a million reasons I'm mad, let me just work them all out a minute. I'm not a dick. You're the dick, _dick._ ”

He sets down his mug to fetch the backpack he hastily discarded as he walked through the door that evening. He brings it over to the couch and takes a seat.

“You forgot this,” Tweek says, as he fishes out an object wrapped in toilet tissue from his bag and thrusts it into Craig's hands.

“Oh, fuck.”

Craig's eyes grow wide with realisation and his cheeks redden with embarrassment.

“Yeah, Merry Christmas-- don't put it on the couch! Gross!”

“Where else am I supposed to put it?”

“ _I don't know._ Somewhere where people don't fucking sit, Craig,” Tweek spits, as if the words were acid on his tongue. Craig fiddles uncomfortably with the previously forgotten butt plug and elects to rest it on his lap for now. It lays there awkwardly between his thighs, wrapped in more tissue than necessary. He's thankful, if not sheepish that Tweek had to return it.

Tweek reclaims his mug from the coffee table and starts sipping at the contents with more belligerence than what's acceptable for tea. He takes a hand through his messy curls and stares at the ceiling, at nothing in particular while Craig looks on confused.

“What's this all about, Tweek?”

“Things,” he says, through gritted teeth.

“What things?”

“ _All the things!”_ Tweek loses his composure. His words came out more stressed, more exasperated than he intended. The grip on his mug tightens. The words tumble out of his mouth at a breakneck speed. “You're supposed to be my best friend, Craig. Why did I only find out you were coming home when I was, ngh, fucking you in the cinema?”

Craig has nothing to say, he can't think of anything at all. Why had he kept it so secret? Why had he only told his family? He and Tweek had spent the majority of the last year together; Craig delayed college for a year and Tweek want going at all and they'd bonded all the more closely for it now their friends had left. They'd been doing almost everything in each others’ company only a few months ago - what changed? College, freedom and sex took over everything he'd held dear.

“Were you ever going to tell me? Do I mean that little to you?”

Guilt washes over Craig like a current, soon to sweep him out further ashore past all excited realms. He doesn't say anything as Tweek continues rambling, airing his thoughts to the world. Craig acknowledges some of the reasons why Tweek is so irate but others he just doesn't understand. Still, he's in unchartered waters; he's never seen Tweek so upset with him.

“...And I'm mad that we have this new dynamic to contend with. We fucked so we're not just friends, but we're not, like, lovers. We're in this ah, limbo of nghh-fuckery, man.

“How am I supposed to pretend I haven't seen your dick? Or like, go back to how things were? People are gonna know, man. They'll just know!”

“Jesus, Tweek. Calm down.” Craig winces as soon as he says the words, instantly regretting them.

“Don't tell me to ‘calm down’, Craig. I can't believe you haven't thought about this yourself,” Tweek says, narrowing his eyes.

“I mean, it's just not a big deal. People have sex all the time.”

“ _Yes_ ,” he hisses, “but how many of them are fucking their same-sex friends? You know what this town is like.”

And Craig knows it's true; South Park is a small town with smaller minds. It's not so bad for him, he can run back to college, but Tweek is trapped here. Stuck with people who think homosexuality is something you can catch like a plague. He's not surprised Tweek wanted to keep it a secret. He'd intentionally forgotten all about this town as soon as he moved away.

“Yeah, you're right. Sorry.”

Strangely, a small apology is enough to placate Tweek. He gulps down the last of his tea and sets the empty mug down in front of him. He sighs as the day's frustration melts away like snow in spring.

“Thank you for listening to me,” he says with a small smile.

“Are we still friends?”

“Just about.” They both know he means yes, however vague it may seem.

Tweek takes a moment to relax, to exhale, to remember to breathe. “You gonna drink that?” he says, as he reaches for the second cup. Craig shakes his head.

“I'm not done,” he says after a period of silence. “I'm still mad you didn't tell me you're, I dunno, gay-bi-queer.”

Craig scoffs. “That's rich! It's not like you didn't tell me either!”

“I _hinted.”_

“You know I'm bad with subtlety.”

“Suggesting _Rent_ for our movie night is hardly subtle,” Tweek mutters under his breath.

Craig looks at Tweek with no clear expression on his face. Thoughts go as quickly as they come while Craig tries to piece together the many ways in which Tweek thought he was subtle. He scans his friend for any kind of clues to jog a memory but ultimately comes up with blanks.

“I just thought you had a thing for Idina Menzel. You also suggested _Frozen_ and _Wicked_ straight after.”

“Yeah, and you said _Defying Gravity_ and _Let It Go_ sound like coming out songs!”

Craig petulantly folds his arms. “Because they clearly are.”

“Exactly,” Tweek exclaims. “You said it yourself. ‘ _As subtle as a brick to the face_ ’, remember?”

“Oh.”

“You're such a dope, Craig,” he says, as he playfully pushes his friend's arm and scoots in a little closer. The contents of his mug splash over the top and coat his fingers.

Tweek takes a moment to lick the tea off his digits, an act that doesn't go unnoticed by Craig. He watches open mouthed as Tweek's tongue darts out, flicks and swirls and licks his fingers before putting each one into his mouth to get any last remaining drops. They make eye contact as he runs his tongue over his fingers for a second time. Craig is dry-mouthed, and thirsty for more than just tea.

“Thanks for, uh, _cleaning up_ , by the way.”

“You know I wasn't mad about that, right? It was kind of hot,” Tweek says, sucking on his thumb. “You came everywhere, and _I_ made you do that.”

He runs a tongue over his lips and locks eyes with Craig, who shortens the gap between them. He rests a wandering hand on Tweek's thigh. The pair are like magnets, inexplicably drawn to one another and will shortly be unable to prise themselves apart. The tension in the air is thick and the pull is intense.

With mere inches between them and Craig's hand steadily rising up Tweek's leg, he murmurs: “...You want to do that again?”

* * *

 

In 2AM darkness, Craig whispers for Tweek after post-sex sleep. His hands meander the slopes and valleys of Tweek's naked body until he finds a hand to hold, resting his on top and pulling himself closer.

“If this is for sex, I'm not interested right now,” he says, groggily.

It's just like Tweek to be awake in the early hours. The pair are tired, but not so weary they aren't coherent. Craig doesn't say anything for a while, enjoying the comfortable silence between them. He has things on his mind and Tweek can tell. He's good with reading people like that.

He closes his eyes and whispers: “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

Tweek rolls over to face Craig, hands still connected and not much space between them. It's enough to make his heart beat a little quicker; Tweek isn't sure whether that's because of his proximity to Craig or settling panic from having no idea what he's about to be asked.

“How did you know you… _liked men,_ ” Craig says as quietly as possible, as if it were a crime in the eyes of the universe. His eyes are still shut, afraid of what he might see, who he might be judged by.

“I don't know, I guess I just did. I knew pretty early on I wasn't like the other boys in the class,” Tweek replies, matching Craig's hushed tone.

“Me too.”

The room is silent, bar the rhythmic breathing of the two men in bed. The rise and falls off their chests move in time as they clasp their hands together and close the distance for a tender kiss. Tweek scans his lover's face for an expression, for anything, but only finds tranquility.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Tweek's words breaks the serenity of the moment and Craig looks down at nothing in particular out of guilt, embarrassment and the inability to find the right way to express himself.

“I just didn't want anyone to know. Not from here.” Craig pauses before confessing, “I didn't even want to admit it to myself.”

They lay there for a while in silence, Tweek's rough hand caressing Craig's own. He likes the way it feels on his skin, the way it makes him feel inside, the way that it the touch undoubtedly comes from another man. Small towns like these could never understand what they feels like - they wouldn't accept it either. Craig takes a minute to enjoy the touch before he speaks again.

“Do you really think I'm a slut?”

“What? No, dude,” Tweek states, reflexively jolting up into a sitting position. “I thought you were into it. Oh god--Jesus, I'm sorry."

The light from the moon illuminates Tweek's hair, giving him that illustrious halo again. He's sincere, the most sincere person Craig has ever known. A saint of gay fucking and earnestness.

“Sorry, I'm just being stupid. I was into it, yeah. It's late, ignore me.”

He squeezes himself in tighter and rests his head on Tweek's stomach as his partner relaxes. Long, graceful fingers dance through his hair in relaxing motions making him all the more drowsy. Tweek smells of sweat, coffee and sex but it's not unpleasant; Craig would bottle it up if he could.

“Hey, what's with your name on Grindr?” Craig murmurs into Tweek's body.

"It's my middle name. As in _'cup of Joe'_."

"Wow, I hate your parents.”

They laugh together, as if it were the funniest joke in the world. The movements of Tweek's stomach make for an uncomfortable pillow, and the pair reposition themselves to lay together, face to face, bringing each other in for a small kiss as they do so.

“You know, I came out to my dad,” Tweek whispers. There's nobody in the house but them, yet he's keeping it silent like the walls are listening. “He told me it would be bad for business if it ever got out.”

“Why don't you move away? You could come with me.”

“Don't say that, Craig,” he sighs as he turns away. “You're just love-drunk off good sex.”

“I'm not,” Craig says, as he plants kisses on Tweek's temple, his ear, his neck. He looks at the marks he made earlier on his chest; purple looks so pretty against Tweek's alabaster skin. Violet blooms create a bouquet of passion passed and Craig wouldn't mind adding more. His stubble tickles Tweek, and he turns to face Craig once more before pressing their lips together.

Their kisses are soft and warm, lazy but not sloppy, yet they feel so very right - and like home. Hands feel their way across every inch of skin in the darkness, creating maps in the minds of their owners that lead to all kinds of treasure.

“Ask me again in a few months and I might change my mind.”


End file.
